Star Magazine has reported that Jennifer Aniston recently scribbled down a love poem for her main douche man, John Mayer. And wouldn’t you know it, he went around and turned it into a beautiful Mayer ballad, a surprise unleashed upon her over the holidays while the two vacationed in Mexico.

Oh, my! Could we soon witness the release of the next great Mayer oeuvre? What could possibly top “Your Body Is A Wonderland?”

Let’s take a peek at Aniston’s lyrics:

Lucky in love, lucky in loveDidn’t forget me when I asked you to leave me.Didn’t forget meNow you’re alongside meYou’ve brought luck to loveI’ve been hit by a truck in love.

Um. Wow.

Looks like somebody’s been taking classes at the Tila Tequila school of Poetry, though they might be better served by sticking to a healthy regimen of Pilates, beach lounging, shopping for clothing basics, and taking on the occasional romantic comedy role.

I have to admit, poetry has always confused the hell out of me. Once I ventured outside of the AB AB rhyme scheme, I was pretty much effed. From a very young age, I kept diaries, I wrote stories, and I had imaginary pen pals (one of whom was named after the regional burger chain Whataburger), but I never fancied myself a poet. Even when I attended a graduate writing program, I avoided poetry. Poets, too, because they’re a whole different breed from fiction writers–infinitely cooler, yes, but irritatingly difficult to hold a conversation with. I attribute that to their constant need to distill everything down to its essence.

I’ve never been much of a reader of poetry, either. I usually get stuck on one image–T.S. Eliot’s rolled trousers, William Carlos Williams’ plum. I experienced that same confusion when I read the following poem, penned by Tila Tequila after she got dissed at the pink-and-blue disco-altar during the Shot at Love 2 finale:

Thunderfuck my mouth is shut. Been a while, feel like a cunt.Can’t wait for this drama to pass.Oh the joy…..fuck you. My ass.Live a lie.Tell my mind.Over soon. I can’t deny.You will all soon see, the truth in my eyes.

Smile on my face, the loving embrace….but instead I’ll punch you in the face.For a long time coming….I let you touch me….now that it’s over bitch….You better start running.Pent up inside….telling these lies….this has gone too far…..the world will soon die.

Only 1 more day. To feel this way. Tomorrow I smile….brings another day!

Back to myself. Nobody else. Fuck all this bullshit. I’m back to myself. Yes. Thank the fuck God.

Sure, she was going through unimaginable pain. Yes, she had been dumped AGAIN. And on TV, no less. But, reading her poem (the only entry tagged “Tila Tequila poetry” on her website), I was drawn to one thing, and one thing only.

WHO IS “THE FUCK GOD”???

I allowed myself to imagine that, if I could only figure out who “The Fuck God” was, the universe would fling open its sacred doors for me. All kinds of mysteries would be revealed. I would get rich! I would get famous! I would have mind-altering sex every day, possibly several times a day! I would finally understand phenomena that have confounded me for years, like the popularity of red shoes and Red Bull! The Grateful Dead and Coldplay! Dancing with the Stars and The Hills! Shorts-with-heels and short pants! Oprah and Rachael Ray! Why hot dogs are always so damned delicious!